Prisoners of War
by FailMailFiction
Summary: Captured prisoners from Panem's war with European powers are forced to take part in the 74th Hunger Games. Mainly follows the pair from the British Expeditionary Force. How will twelve more contestants change up the action of the Games? Shall we find out? Rated M for future. AU where Panem is at war with other countries, assumes the Great War was somewhat less impactful.
1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Prologue**

President Snow rarely addressed his people, there was a customary speech before each Hunger Games, but that did it for him. It wasn't quite that he disliked his subjects, more that he preferred to remain above them and not give them any silly notions that he was some kind of benevolent dictator. The people of the Capitol ruled and the people of the districts followed, this was how it had always been, and fear was vital to this order of man that seemed so natural. Since the war began, Coriolanus Snow found that he was giving speeches and taking a personal hand in things more often than he was used to. As a matter of fact, he stood at that precise moment at his podium, ready to address the awaiting masses of the Capitol.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, "This is the Seventy-Fifth year since the uprising against the Capitol and the loyal citizens of Panem..." His low, raspy tone brought with a great deal of anticipation but he made no effort to raise his voice or cause a ruckus, his intention was only to inform. "The Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games is soon to begin, in the twelve Districts of Panem the Reapings are due to begin in a mere two days time…" This announcement was met by raucous applause from the Capitol citizens, Snow pressed on. "This year, I am proud and pleased to announce an amendment to the charter of the Games. As everyone knows well, our foolish enemies to the north, and on shores overseas, have recently been dealt a stinging defeat by the great people of Panem." This was not a simple case of propaganda, in a short campaign in Canada, multiple defeats had been handed down to the combined forces of Panem's European and Canadian enemies. "Hundreds of prisoners are being kept here in the Capitol, and it is these prisoners that will join the ranks of our brave tributes this year. Our despicable enemies are losing this war and have pressed even their children and womenfolk into the service of their armies." Of course, this wasn't entirely true, with the Great War, the world's population had declined dramatically and most countries still remaining had no choice but to open their ranks to everyone who would fight. Panem was no exception but there was no need for the Capitol to know that. "Therefore," Snow continued, "One male and one female tribute of the regulation age will be reaped from the captured armies of our enemies to take part in this year's Hunger Games!"

This inspired rapturous applause, cheering, laughing and clapping spread like a tide over the assembled population. President Snow smiled a slight, self-congratulatory grin as he stepped back from the podium and the spotlights began to dim. He coughed as he made the slow return to his car, sputtering blood onto his crisp, white handkerchief. A darkly-outfitted servant stepped forward to offer Snow a white rose which was accepted and hastily thrust through the button-hole of his jacket as he stepped into the comfortable embrace of the presidential automobile.

 **Chapter One**

So far, all had been going smoothly. The reapings hadn't turned out too badly, as expected, Districts One through Five had offered up Careers which had trained their whole lives for the opportunity. District Eleven had presented an interesting showing, their male was eighteen, strong and fierce. Their female, on the other hand, was only twelve and tiny, speed and stealth being her key advantages. District Twelve had a volunteer, the first in the history of that District. The others were mostly as expected, random tributes reaped through sheer bad luck or perhaps too much reliance on the tesserae.

In the prisoner pens of the Capitol, a second reaping had begun. Just under six hundred prisoners of age twelve to eighteen had been taken into an ignominious captivity following the fighting in Canada. There had been a so-called 'Parade of Disgrace' the day prior in which all of the prisoners had been forced to march through the main streets of the Capitol to the place where the reaping was to take place. The prisoners had spent the night in that open plaza, surrounded by a large patrol of peacekeepers, armed with their rifles and outfitted in those pure white uniforms which the foreign soldiers had grown to hate so much. Unfortunately, the night had been remarkably cold for the time of year and the rumour was, although nobody really knew, that several of the prisoners had died from illness or the conditions, which were squalid even with the open space.

As dawn broke, the peacekeepers were replaced by a fresh group of guards and the prisoners were roused from their restless slumber with kicks and shouts. There was no fighting, the prisoners having long since been broken by torture or repressed by their harsh treatment. Beatings were common and, in fact, a trio of peacekeepers with short whips trundled through the pack of captives, administering singular lashes, seemingly at random. At the back of the plaza, a pair of English officers had managed to pull the British and Canadian prisoners into a lacklustre formation of five ranks with seventy prisoners in each rank. One officer, by some amazing stroke of luck, still brandished a frayed swagger stick which seemed to have seen better days. His attempts to inform the peacekeepers on the Geneva Conventions and the 2020 Washington Convention on Warfare were met with laughs and kicks. The other prisoners, from a variety of European nations, crowded around the raised platform, which was rapidly becoming populated with peacekeepers and officials. It wasn't long before they recognised the white beard and haggard features of President Coriolanus Snow himself, who took a dominant space at a eagle-crested podium.

"Prisoners," He declared, with neither gusto nor conviction, "You have no doubt been informed as to why you are here. Due to your age, and your foolishness in fighting against Panem and the Capitol, you have been selected to compete in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games… Two tributes, one male and one female, will be selected from your ranks. The floor is open to volunteers, of course..." Snow smiled as his address came to an end, not content in speaking to those who truly were below him, "And may the odds be ever in your favour…" He slyly announced, shrinking back from the podium and leaving the floor to his outrageously-outfitted officials.

A man dressed in a blueberry suit and with slicked up burgundy hair stepped up to the podium, brandishing under each arm a transparent dome filled with paper, there was no need for an explanation as to what they meant. "I am Julius Compass, the escort for the tributes from District One," he explained in an accent that but the English soldiers at ease. "And I have the honour to reap the tributes from the French forces." There was an audible sigh from the masses. No drumroll could have rivalled the tension visible on the faces of those prisoners from the French Second Army, captured mainly in a battle just north of District Nine. Compass' pale hand drooped into one of the bowls and withdrew a slip of paper. He opened it slowly and struggled with the names, "Phillipe Fabre!"

Wordless, the Frenchman, a strong looking teen of at least sixteen years, stepped up the concrete steps to the platform and stood beside the eccentric escort expectantly. Compass smiled at the captive and reached into the other bowl. The name read was "Elise Lyon," which Julius had slightly less trouble with. She too seemed to be quite fit, or at least as fit as one could expect a poorly-fed fifteen year old to be, after suffering through three weeks of captivity. His face a picture of serene calmness, Julius thanked the crowd and led his tributes away, presumably to meet the District One tributes that he managed.

The selection process, or 'reaping', continued in this manner across the German Third Division, the Canadian Army, the Belgian Flemish Division and the Norwegian First Brigade. From these once brave ranks came no volunteers, the tributes being picked and led away by their 'escorts' a title that caused snickers from the Anglo forces. At least until a woman dressed in dark pink strode forward to the podium, her puffy blonde curls personalised with a huge pink flower. She introduced herself, cheerfully, as Effie Trinket, and at her beckoning the roughly three hundred prisoners from the British Expeditionary Force edged forward. Their officers led by example, the two young men advanced confidently, despite the clear anxiety in their eyes. Before their reaping began, the escort insisted on displaying a video which was projected onto the tall screen behind her. It became quickly obvious that it was pure propaganda, the stern voice of Panem's President preaching about past treasons and long-gone rebellions.

Trinket shrugged her shoulders and smiled patronisingly as the video came to an end, the assembled ranks knew full well what that meant by now. All heads turned to the five ranks of tattered uniforms, of sweaty, injured, dirty bodies, of men and women, boys and girls broken by four months of gruelling warfare and starving captivity. There was no sadness but perhaps a hint of pity in Effie Trinket's eyes as she looked down on this mass of filthy khaki, with her cheery voice she called out, "As is polite, ladies first!" Her red fingernails and pale hands wormed their way seductively into the bowl. "Alex Kimberly," She declared, calmly, waiting for the doubtlessly terrified prisoner to make her way forward. After a few moments of anticipation, which must have felt like months to some, a girl made her meandering way to the front of the formation from the rear rank. She looked up tearfully at the officer, still brandishing his swagger stick and gave him a respectful yet broken salute before slowly making her way up the bare concrete stairs. Pleased, Effie Trinket beckoned her over with a hand and bade the prisoner of war stand on her left side.

"Now…" Effie, suffering from no loss of fervour, declared, "For the boys!" Her hand dipped again into the bowl and she called out, "Terrance MacMillan!" Once again there were those two seconds of anticipation, this time combined with a cacophony of sighs and coughs. A great big bear of a man in the front rank stepped forward and began to make his way to his commander, intent on giving the same respectful farewell that his comrade did but three minutes beforehand. This time the gesture was denied. "As you were, Sergeant Major." The officer ordered, simply.

He was met with a surprised, "But, sir!" From MacMillan, but nonetheless, he nodded to that big, muscular NCO and MacMillan stepped back into the ranks.

"I volunteer!" The officer called out, to widespread shock. There was a great deal of whispering, but no man stepped out of the file or tried to talk the officer out of it.

"Well…" Effie said, somewhat taken aback, she had not expected volunteers from this beaten bunch of foreign soldiers, if soldiers they could even be called. "It appears we have a volunteer…" She spoke on as if being recorded. Not though the prisoners were aware, of course, they were being recorded. "Interesting events in Justice Square," she mused, "The first volunteer from our prisoners of war." Calmly , yet with a clear flicker of sad reflection in his eyes and a look of resignation on his face, the officer walked up the stairs and came face to face with the exceeding decadent Effie Trinket. He was led, slightly forcefully, over to where his subordinate was standing and Effie asked him his name, her voice just as cheerful as it had been throughout the whole affair. "Richard Nicholson, Royal Sussex Yeomanry," he said quickly and defeatedly.

Playing things up for the cameras, Effie quized him further, "And who is Mister MacMillan to you?" She asked inquisitively.

"My Sergeant Major." Nicholson replied, plainly. Effie had no means to challenge that as she, along with many people in Panem, had no understanding of European military terminology, and certainly, no understanding of the British military culture that forced Nicholson, a Captain, to volunteer on behalf of his Sergeant Major.

Either way, the matter was over, and Effie suggested a round of applause. The suggestion was met by a haggard salute from the British and Canadian ranks, and apathetic silence from the mass of European prisoners. "Well, here we are then, the tributes from the… Gallant… British Expeditionary Force." Gallant was perhaps the only word Effie could have used, complimenting Panem's foreign enemies was a dangerous game, but nobody could doubt their bravery and it was unlikely that such an epithet as Gallant would harm her career. She continued with what must have been routine for her, perhaps for as long as ten years. "Go on then, you two, shake hands now…" Such a breach of discipline had been allowed in the foriegn forces, Nicholson would be damned if such a transgression would take place in the British forces, he raised his hand in a stern salute and his female counterpart, Alex, did the same. Effie deemed that good enough and finished off, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _ **Caesar Flickerman**_

"So… Now that you've seen them," Caesar asked, Seneca Crane sitting nonchalantly to his left, "what do you think about this year's crop of _recruits_?" He made sure to use the word recruit carefully, almost implying that the tributes were all volunteers, instead of just a few. "Are there any surprises that we can expect this year?" He asked, genuinely interested.

"It's really hard to tell, just from a reaping," Crane replied, he spoke with a natural confidence built up from being the Head Gamemaker for three years running. "But, this is a very interesting mix, I mean, whenever you have a volunteer from an outline District, that's something you can't ignore…"

Crane was clearly avoiding the subject of the new additions. Caesar understood why but decided to bring the subject up anyway. "And especially with the… Special additions this year. What do you think about our foreign friends?" Caesar felt a buzz as he said that, it was no small honour to be perhaps the only man in the Capitol, nay, in Panem, to be able to call Panem's enemies ' _friends'_ on live television. Crane, however, did not waver in his response. "Well," he said, "Ever since the reports of our victories in the north came in, I had actually been expecting this." Caesar nodded, he too could have seen this coming a mile off. "But, without meaning to sound like I've been caught off guard, I had expected the inclusion of our _guests_ to be something for next year's Quarter Quell."

That was a fair assumption, the Gamemakers certainly would have to pull out all the stocks for the next year's Quarter Quell, especially since this prisoner of war scheme had been sprung on everyone by President Snow. The preparations, for what they were, had actually turned out quite well, considering the short notice. "But what do we know about the actual tributes from the captured armies?" Caesar, still interested personally, asked.

"Well…" Seneca seemed to hesitate. "We've identified a few key characteristics which I think will be interesting, especially in the Games themselves. But… As we've yet to see them publicly, we'll simply have to wait for the most part."

 _ **Alex Kimberly**_

Alex lay on that table as the junior stylists plucked her eyebrows and waxed her legs and hosed her down what seemed like every five minutes. Her hair was snipped at, and then trimmed, and finally cut back two inches entirely. The process was degrading and the medical efficiency of it all made it even worse, it made Alex feel like a corpse on a trainee surgeon's table, being dissected just to see what lay beneath the skin. And boy did these stylists know how to get under hers. The process took hours, by the time it was over, Alex had lost count of the number of times she had been showered with water both hot and cold. Still, it felt good to be clean again after a month of captivity in the prison pens of the Capitol.

When the whole affair was finally over, Alex was left in sullen silence. She supposed that victory in these ' _Hunger Games'_ might mean her release. Perhaps, she thought, winning the games might lead to her seeing her homeland again. It was worth a try, anyway. Wasn't it? In all the confusion, Alex had lost track of time, in the prisoner pens, it was easy to keep track of the date by scratching lines or asking fellow captives who had. Many officers still had their watches too, which just happened to tell both the date and time. However, she hadn't the time to check the day prior, before being led off on the Parade of Disgrace and she was quite confused. Alex lay in silent contemplation for what seemed like hours until a man entered the room.

The first thing Alex noticed about Cinna was the gold eyeliner, it was what she had come to expect of the decadent denizens of the Capitol, but it contrasted so deeply with the practical simplicity of the rest of his body. He was dark-skinned, the people of Panem supposedly forgetting the ardent racism of their American predecessors. And though his eyes were still accented by that golden eyeliner, the rest of his outfit was simplistic, normal, even. A sleek black shirt and trousers, both seemingly made from the same leather as his knee-length boots, sufficed to him. This was, of course, in stark contrast to many of the Capitol's citizens who were dressed simply outrageously. Cinna introduced himself politely and Alex did the same. He smiled at her and she swung her body around, sitting up on the metal bed.

"I'm so sorry." Was the first thing he said when the awkward silence hit them.

"Excuse me?" Alex asked, confused.

"I'm sorry that you were selected for this." He explained. "If I can help you in any way, please tell me how."

"You could send me home," Alex replied, with a cheeky smile, "I think that'd be best for everyone, actually."

"Sadly, that's not quite in my job description," Cinna replied with a smile of his own.

The pair shared a chuckle, the kind of laugh that was only for the moment, a laugh shared between two people who were so, so very different. Of course, the biggest difference was that Alex was probably going to die in two week's time, whereas Cinna would go on living as a loyal Capitol citizen.

"You know what I'm here for?" Cinna asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well… If you're not here to set me loose," Alex mused, "and you're not here to kill me… You must be here to make me look good."

"Wrong." Cinna cut in instantly, "I'm here to make you popular, to make sure that you make an impression on those people out there." He began to explain, "Today will be the tribute parade, they're going to show you all off to the people of the Capitol." Alex nodded, Cinna continued. "Most of the time, people are dressed in the clothes of their District. The tributes from Twelve are coal miners, Six are train drivers, Nine are farmers, you get the picture…"

"But I'm not from a District…" Alex replied.

"Exactly. Now, as I understand it, the other stylists are just dressing their foreign tributes like the ones from the Districts. The Belgian tributes are coming out dressed in the power plant uniforms of District Five. But… I'm thinking you guys could do with something a bit more unique…"

 _ **Richard Nicholson**_

"No, sorry, absolutely not." Richard had said, he knew that this was coming by the time he had been hosed down for the third time.

"What do you mean, no?" Cinna asked, baffled by the tribute's adamant refusal of all of his designs.

"It goes against King's Regulations…" Nicholson declared, a phrase which was quickly becoming tiresome. "We must have new uniforms, there is no alternative."

"But you need sponsors, you need to make the people out there _like_ _you_." Cinna insisted.

"But surely they will, if all the other European tributes, and the Canadians, are dressed like woodcutters and cotton pickers, surely having us in uniform sets up apart."

Cinna admitted that he did, indeed, have a point, but all the same, they had no British Army uniforms. "Besides," he had said, "Where is the flair, where is the spectacle to an army uniform?"

"Listen to me…" Richard had said, quite sternly, and quite out of character for a King's Officer. " The Capitol don't know soldiers, they know a glorified police force in white uniforms and toy bloody helmets, they _will_ be impressed by our uniforms. But only _if_ you can make them properly."

It went against everything that his time as a Capitol stylist had taught him but Cinna knew that the tribute was right, even if he didn't want to admit it. "Fine," he conceded with a grin, "but I'll need descriptions…"

 **Author's** **Note:**

I apologise for the odd paragraphing so far, unfortunately, this is down to my copy and pasting these chapters. This will continue for the foreseeable future but please tell me if it becomes unbearable.

Also, for this fic, I have decided to mainly use the film appearances of characters. Further, for much of the dialogue, I will be relying on the film and have, in fact, been copying some lines directly from the film. This is both down to my own laziness and the fact that I would like to stay faithful to the source material while providing this (I hope) vaguely interesting scenario.


End file.
